


Let It Begin, Heaven Can Not Wait Forever

by miss_begonia



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-16
Updated: 2012-02-16
Packaged: 2017-10-31 06:41:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/341096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_begonia/pseuds/miss_begonia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>God, sometimes Nate fucking hates the fact that his mom is the President of the United States.</i> A Chasing Liberty AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let It Begin, Heaven Can Not Wait Forever

**[Prologue]**

  
  
“I hate first dates,” Ray says, taking a big bite of his sandwich. “Too painful.”  
  
“Could you please not chew on the comms?” Walt’s voice comes through, clear and cold. “It’s gross.”  
  
Ray swallows. He will never admit it, but he likes having Walt’s voice in his ear. It makes him feel all tingly, and much closer to Walt than Walt ever lets him be when they’re physically together.  
  
“This one looks like a keeper,” Ray comments. “She’s smiling at him and shit. It’s kind of adorable.”  
  
“You don’t see much of that, do you, Person?” Walt asks. “I’m guessing girls don’t smile at you often.”  
  
Ray ignores Walt’s mild insult. He’s used to it; they’ve been partners a long time now, and Walt has a very low tolerance for Ray’s particular brand of b.s.  
  
“I like that jacket, Hasser,” Ray says, “You should wear jackets like that more often.”  
  
Ray watches Walt on the video screens. He shifts slightly in his seat in the restaurant, eyes flitting from the exits to the windows to Fick and his date with practiced ease.  
  
“It’s not a jacket, it’s a blazer,” Walt says, but his lips quirk into an almost-smile.   
  
Ray smothers a sigh. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to focus on protecting the President’s son when Hasser is just _sitting_ there, looking so fucking hot. They weren’t kidding in the brochures: Ray’s job is the hardest job in the world.  
  
“Jacket, blazer, you wear it well. Take a compliment,” Ray says.   
  
He wants to add _and I’d really like to remove it with my teeth_ , but he refrains.   
  
“Looks like we’ve got a potential situation, nine o’clock,” Walt says, and sure enough, Ray spots a bunch of teenage girls approaching Fick and his date, looking nervous. The girls do love Nate Fick, which Ray supposes makes sense. He’s all bright-eyed and fresh-faced and looks like a pin-up from _Non-Threatening Boys Weekly_.  
  
“I thought I’d make this night more memorable,” Ray hears one of the girls say via Walt’s mike, and then she’s reaching into her pocket—  
  
“Dammit,” Ray mutters.  
  
“She’s reaching – go, go, go!“ Walt shouts, and back-up pours in from all sides, surrounding the girls and pulling them away from Fick and his date.  
  
“Good keeping an eye out, Hasser,” Ray says, thinking, _Thank God somebody was._  
  
“It’s a camera,” he hears Fick shout. “You dumb, trigger-happy motherfuckers!”   
  
  
  
  
****

**[1]**

  
  
  
Nate Fick is not a child. He is eighteen fucking years old and he is going to Dartmouth in less than three months and he cannot believe he is even having this conversation.  
  
“They frisked her, Mom,” he says. “In public! At a restaurant! And now she doesn’t want to hang out with me again, which – big fucking surprise, I can’t imagine why—“  
  
“Nate,” his mother says, taking a sip of her orange juice and looking at him over the rims of her glasses, “please watch your language in here.”  
  
“In here? In this great hallowed space? You want me to watch my fucking language? Yeah, I’ll just conveniently forget that my security detail basically molested my date—”  
  
“Nathaniel,” his mother says, her voice sharp, “you need to get a hold of yourself. You know that you only have the security detail for your own protection. It’s unfortunate that this happened, but it’s necessary that they be vigilant.”  
  
“I don’t get why I even need my own detail,” Nate says. “I’m not the important one.”  
  
His mother examines him with her steady green eyes. “You’re important to me.”  
  
“Do you really think—“  
  
“Yes, Nate!” his mother cuts him off. “I really do think you could be in danger, because there are a lot of people in this world who do not like me, and you are my son, and I love you, and that makes you a target. I know this is hard for you, but we’re doing the best we can.”  
  
“I want one agent,” Nate says. “Just one. If I can’t get rid of the detail, I think one agent can handle—“  
  
“Two,” his mother says. “They work in teams.”  
  
“Fine, two agents,” Nate says. “Promise me that on the Europe trip I can have two agents and no one else.”  
  
His mother sighs. “Nate—“  
  
“Mom!”  
  
“Okay,” she relents. “Two agents. Person and Hasser. They’re good, and very discreet.”  
  
Nate closes his eyes briefly, willing his heart rate to slow. He’s so fucking frustrated, he wants to punch someone, but this – this is something, at least. A tiny but significant victory.  
  
“Okay,” Nate says. “I’m going to pack.”  
  
“Someone can do that for you, sweetheart—“  
  
“I can pack my own suitcase,” Nate spits out. “Jesus Christ.”  
  
His mother purses her lips, but says nothing.  
  
God, sometimes Nate fucking hates the fact that his mom is the President of the United States.

*

  
  
Nate pouts all the way to Prague, which he realizes is immature, but he’s still seething over the date incident. He can’t believe they pounced on those girls because one of them tried to take a picture. Everything that is wrong with American foreign policy could be summed up in that one symbolic moment.  
  
“Nathaniel,” his mother says, flicking through her Blackberry, “don’t wallow.”  
  
“I’m not wallowing,” Nate says. “I’m…meditating.”  
  
“I think meditation works better when you look less like you want to kill someone,” she says.  
  
“I just…do you understand why I’m tired of this?” Nate says. “My whole life, mom. I’ve spent my whole life being watched.”  
  
She looks at him with her quiet, careful eyes, fixing him with the look that always makes him feel like things are going to be okay. Nate’s pretty sure that look makes the whole country feel like things are going to be okay.  
  
It doesn’t quite work its magic right now, however.  
  
“I know it’s not easy,” she says, “and I do appreciate what you’ve given up. Please just let them keep you safe, sweetheart.”  
  
Nate wants to say that he’s not totally incompetent, that he can keep himself safe. But he bites his lip and stays silent.

*

  
  
The first day of the trip is typical diplo crap, hand-shaking and suit-wearing and smiling until Nate thinks his jaw might crack from the strain. He chats with little kids at a daycare center and meets some key party leaders for brunch and helps dedicate a memorial. Nate doesn’t mind this stuff – all the meeting and greeting, the pleasantries, the cheerfulness – but it does get old. It’s gotten old.  
  
That night there’s a black-tie event at Prague Castle hosted by the Czech President. Nate is so tired, but he can’t find a way to ditch without looking like a total asshole, so he slumps in a high-backed chair in the corner and counts the minutes until it’s over.  
  
“LT!”  
  
Only Nate’s high school friends call him LT. He earned the moniker for his knack for organization, and – in his less even-tempered moments – his tendency to order people around like he’s a commander in the field. Sure enough, he looks up to see a big, broad guy with a shaved head maneuvering his way. It’s Antonio Espera, nicknamed Poke, a friend who graduated from their ridiculously tony private school a year ago. He’s been fucking around Europe ever since, sending Nate an occasional email about the hot French chicks he’s banging or the best place to score really good hallucinogenics in Ibiza, like this is information Nate might ever need or want. Poke’s the son of a diplomat from Mexico but a total wild man – he has no tolerance for all the “pretentious political shit,” says it’s all part of the “white man’s plan to rule the world.”  
  
Nate’s not that surprised to see Poke here. Dude gets around. When he was still living in D.C., they supported each other through a number of insufferable state dinners.  
  
“Poke, man, what’s up!” Nate says, but Poke blows past the handshake Nate offers and catches him up in a bear hug.  
  
“I missed you, dog,” Poke says, slapping him on the back hard enough to leave marks. “Ain’t no party like a White House party.”  
  
“I never threw a party at the White House,” Nate says, and Poke grins at him.  
  
“Oh, right, because you were too much of a pussy,” he says, and Nate rolls his eyes.  
  
“Yeah, I’m obviously a pussy,” Nate says. “I do kind of fear the wrath of the Secret Service.”  
  
“You still got those jokers following you around?” Poke says. “That is some certifiable bullshit, man. My dad used to have this guy trail me sometimes, but then I told him if he kept at it I’d shoot him. After that my dad just let me carry a gun for protection. He thought it’d be safer for everyone.”  
  
Nate sighs. “I wish I could ditch them, man,” he says, “but I don’t even know where to start.”  
  
Poke has a glint in his eye Nate’s not sure he’s entirely comfortable with.  
  
“I got some ideas,” Poke says.

*

  
  
“I can’t believe I’m letting you do this,” Nate says, marveling as Poke uses the shaver to buzz off his hair. Light brown hair falls in clumps on the hotel room carpet and cling to his tuxedo pants.  
  
“You needed a new look,” Poke says. “That little boy thing you had going on – it doesn’t suit the new you.”  
  
“The new me?” Nate says.  
  
“You’re going to college soon, right?” Poke says. “You gotta look like a man if you want girls to notice you, man. Being the First Son will only get you so laid.”  
  
Nate doesn’t say anything, doesn’t mention that lately he’s been thinking maybe it’s not the girls he wants to notice him, necessarily. He’s not sure Poke’s the right sort of friend to share that information with.  
  
“Also this will make you much harder to spot in a crowd,” Poke says. “That Nick Carter look is a dead giveaway.”  
  
“I did not look like Nick Carter!” Nate says.  
  
“No, you’re right, you didn’t,” Poke says. “You totally looked like his dumbass little brother.”  
  
Nate punches Poke in the arm, but he just shakes his head and grins. He stands back from the mirror to admire his handiwork. “Not bad, not bad.”  
  
Nate swivels around to look at himself in the mirror. He does look like a different person – a little harder, a little older.   
  
He hopes only he can see the nervous tint to his green eyes.  
  
“The new me,” Nate says, and attempts a smile.

*

  
  
His mom’s eyes widen when she sees his new haircut and tight jeans, saying, “You…cut your hair.”   
  
She sounds almost accusatory, like his hair is in fact an endangered natural resource that isn’t going to fucking grow back. Nate wishes he’d had time to get a few piercings and maybe a tattoo to put it all in perspective.  
  
“Mom, Poke and I are leaving,” Nate says. “I’ll be back later.”  
  
She worries her lip, and for a moment, Nate actually feels kind of like a dick. But then she says, “Be careful.”  
  
“I’m always careful,” Nate says.  
  
He doesn’t add that he thinks maybe that’s what’s wrong with his life.  
  
“There’s this club I know, Klub Lávka,” Poke says, guiding him toward the exit. “Total scene, hot girls. You’ll love it.”  
  
Nate wants to object, to say he’s not really a club sort of person, but then he thinks: _how would I know that?_ He’s never even been to a club. He doesn’t know what sort of person he is.  
  
Poke leads him down bumpy cobblestone streets, lit by iron lampposts that emit a soft, almost liquid glow. Revelers spill out of bars and restaurants, talking and shouting in Czech and English and German and French and other languages Nate doesn’t recognize. Poke hands him a flask to drink from. After a few pulls of the sour sharp drink, Nate feels lightheaded and blurry, and stumbles when Poke shoves him through the wide doors of Klub Lávka, illuminated by bright bulbs.  
  
The music explodes around him, so loud he’s vibrating with it. Bodies writhe in time with the pulsing beat, and Nate closes his eyes and feels it, the music and the people and the heat, the being here, being here in a place like nowhere he’s ever been before.  
  
“Whoa, dog,” Poke says, laughing. “Don’t stroke out on me. How much did you drink?”  
  
“M’good,” Nate says, and smiles. “I’m good. Not drunk.”  
  
“You are such a fucking square,” Poke says, “but I love you anyway.”  
  
“I’m not a square,” Nate objects. “I’m – I’m a triangle, man, I’m fucking awesome—“  
  
“Hey, LT,” Poke interrupts. He looks perturbed. “How many agents did you say there were supposed to be?”  
  
Nate blinks, forcing himself to focus. He sees Hasser up above them, leaning over the balcony, and Person propped against the bar. But when he twists around he sees another shady guy in sunglasses, talking into his wrist, and still another stage left with an earpiece and a creepy, flickering gaze that follows his every movement.  
  
“Motherfucker,” Nate curses under his breath.  
  
“Don’t freak out,” Poke says.  
  
“I’m not freaking out,” Nate says, “but I am going to get the hell out of here.”  
  
Poke grasps his arm, squeezing. “You really want to do this?”  
  
Nate nods.  
  
“Okay,” Poke says. “Let’s ditch these fools.”  
  
They duck into the men’s room. There’s a drunk dude wearing a bomber jacket and camo pants sprawled in one corner, muttering nonsense.   
  
“Here, take that dude’s jacket,” Poke says. “He won’t miss it.”  
  
“They’re in the trees!” the guy yells suddenly. “I am Captain America, you commie fucks!”  
  
“Awesome,” Poke says, shaking his head. “Doesn’t matter where you go, man. Crazy people are everywhere.”  
  
“I’ll leave him my jacket,” Nate says, and shrugs off his navy blue peacoat.   
  
Poke raises an eyebrow at him, but Nate waves him away. “I don’t want him to be cold,” he explains.  
  
“You’re a piece of work, LT,” Poke says, but Nate is pretty sure he means it as a compliment.

*

  
  
Nate uses every evasive maneuver he knows to get out of that club, but once he’s outside he has no idea where to go. Poke’s nowhere to be found. The air has cooled and thickened with mist, and even in the leather jacket he shivers. When he spins around he nearly runs directly into someone.  
  
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” Nate says.  
  
The man he almost took down is tall, impossibly tall, and broad – he’s built like some kind of a Greek statue, like a model. His downward slanted blue eyes are filled with amusement. He’s wearing leather and holding a helmet. Behind him Nate sights a gleaming motorcycle.  
  
“You all right?” the man says.  
  
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Nate says. “I just—“  
  
He hears a scuffle behind them, and then someone - several someones - call his name.  
  
 _Shit_ , he thinks. _Shit shit fuck fuck fuck._  
  
“Hey,” Nate says, and even as he says it he can’t believe he’s saying it, “can you help me get out of here?”  
  
The man blinks a few times, then nods. “Sure, why not?”  
  
Climbing on the back of that bike feels natural, even though Nate’s never ridden a motorcycle before. It feels natural and so good when the guy steps on the gas, and there’s suddenly so much air between him and his entourage, his permanent shadows. The wind whips around him and skims his newly shorn scalp, and Nate just holds on and goes.  
  
They’re many blocks away when the man pulls over and flicks off the engine. Without the roar of the bike, it’s suddenly very quiet.  
  
“I can’t believe I just did that,” Nate whispers. “That was—“  
  
“Pretty ninja, I’d say,” the man says.  
  
This man is even more insanely handsome in this light, and Nate feels tongue-tied. He swallows and tries to calm his erratic breathing. _Adrenaline_ , he thinks. _A rational response to perceived danger._  
  
But where are Nate’s manners? He holds out his hand.   
  
“I’m Nate,” he says. “And you are…”  
  
“Brad Colbert,” the man says, and takes his hand in a firm, no-nonsense handshake. “Freelance getaway man.”  
  
  
  
  
 

**[2]**

  
  
  
Brad Colbert has seen trouble appear in many forms in his life, but none quite so vivid as Nate Fick stumbling out of that club in Prague in painted on jeans. Nate’s eyes flick back and forth like a trapped animal. He pulls his leather jacket close to his body, shivers and bites his lip and all Brad wants to do is help him, help him however he can.  
  
So he does.  
  
It’s not one of his smarter moments – personally, politically or professionally. But when Nate climbs on the back of his bike, Brad still feels like he’s done something right, even if he’s not quite sure what.  
  
He’s beginning to regret his decision, however, as he watches Nate down beers like they’re water in this crowded bar. He’s not sure what Nate’s running from, exactly, but whatever it is, he’s pacing himself at a sprint.  
  
“You drink often?” Brad asks, and Nate looks at him over the rim of his beer mug, clear green eyes wide.  
  
“N-no, not really,” Nate admits. “Seems like a good time to start, though.”  
  
“I hope I’m not being presumptuous here, but you seem like you’re running from something,” Brad says.  
  
Nate swallows and sets his mug onto the table, then averts his eyes. “I’m – on vacation with my parents. I just needed out.”  
  
Nate’s a terrible liar, especially when he’s drunk. He’s got a million tells. His eyes alone are as clear a read on his emotions as any lie detector test.  
  
“Out is good sometimes,” Brad says. “Sometimes you just need space of your own.”  
  
Nate’s face brightens, and Brad’s stomach flips. Nate is so – Brad doesn’t even have a word for it. All he can think is: _exposed_.   
  
“Yeah,” Nate says. “Exactly.”  
  
“I’m gonna make a quick phone call,” Brad says. “Hang out here and I’ll be back, okay?”  
  
Nate nods, and smiles into his near-empty glass.  
  
Outside the bar, Brad quickly dials Person.  
  
“What the fuck, man?” Ray says by way of greeting. “You took him on your bike? What were you thinking?”  
  
“Didn’t want him to cause a scene,” Brad says. “There were reporters everywhere. It would’ve been a PR disaster.”  
  
“Fucking A, we were freaking out, Colbert,” Ray says. “Next time you decide to kidnap the President’s son, at least send us a text message or something.”  
  
“I’ve got him and he’s safe,” Brad says. “That’s all that matters.”  
  
“Yeah, well, I don’t know about that,” Ray says. “You’re a crazy man, homes! I—wait, hold on. Got the POTUS on the other line. I’m transferring you, one sec.”  
  
The phone clicks over, and a woman’s voice says, “Brad Colbert?”  
  
Brad takes in a shaky breath. “Hello, Madame President.”  
  
“I understand you have my son with you.”  
  
“Yes, ma’am. He’s here and he’s safe and I can get him back to you right away—“  
  
“No – no, Agent Colbert, I want you to keep my son.”  
  
Brad’s brain whites out for a second.  
  
“I’m sorry, ma’am, what did you say?”  
  
“I want you to keep my son,” President Fick repeats, voice as even as ever. “I don’t want you to tell him who you are or who you work for. Just keep him safe while he gets this…rebellion out of his system. It won’t take long, trust me. Nate is not a rebellious kid. He’s just going through a phase.”  
  
In Brad’s experience, these “phases” are often not phases at all. His rebellious phase led him into the Marines and into war. Never underestimate the stubborn, stupid nature of teenagers.  
  
But he can’t exactly tell the President this. Maybe he’ll get lucky and Nate will be the exception. There’s a first time for everything.  
  
“I’ll do my best to protect him, Madame President,” Brad says.  
  
“I’m sure you will. Hasser and Person will be tagging along too, but they’ll keep a low profile, in case you need back-up.”  
  
Brad tries not to imagine circumstances in which three Secret Service agents would be necessary to keep Nate Fick in check. Instead he says, “Thank you, Madame President.”  
  
“No, thank you, Agent Colbert.”

*

  
  
Nate was tipsy drunk when Brad left, but he is straight up sloppy when Brad returns.  
  
“I am going to take this city by storm,” he announces, coming unsteadily to his feet and making a loopy gesture with one hand. “I am going to fuck shit up, Brad!”  
  
“Whoa there,” Brad says, helping keep Nate upright when he leans over so far he nearly goes sprawling. “I don’t think—“  
  
“I am an aggressive force!” Nate shouts. “I want to experience _everything_.”  
  
“Okay, why don’t we try experiencing walking first,” Brad says. “Out of this bar, away from the alcohol…”  
  
“I’m not drunk,” Nate says, very seriously. “I am assured of this.”  
  
“No, no, of course you aren’t,” Brad says, letting Nate lean on him heavily. He’s warm and solid, and he smells like traces of cologne and cheap beer. “Let’s get you some air.”  
  
Nate lunges for the bike when they exit the bar, but Brad guides him away, saying, “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”   
  
Balance is sort of necessary to ride a motorcycle, and Nate is not exactly exhibiting a dancer’s equilibrium right now.   
  
“But the bike is awesome, Brad,” Nate says. “The bike is so hot—“  
  
“I think maybe I should take you back to your hotel,” Brad says. “We’ll walk there and get you a nice warm shower and into bed, and—“  
  
“Fuck, no,” Nate says. “The night is young and so are we! I’m thinking…look! There’s a river! Let’s go swimming.”  
  
Brad objects to this idea in both theory and execution, but before he can grab a fistful of Nate’s leather jacket, he’s off and running down the bank to the river.  
  
 _I am so fucked_ , Brad thinks.  
  
“What the hell are you doing?” he asks. “Nate—“  
  
“I’m going swimming!” Nate exclaims. Drunk Nate speaks entirely in exclamation points, apparently, and sure enough, he’s stripping off his jacket and shirt and…oh dear God.  
  
“Can’t you go swimming in the hotel pool or something?” Brad says, watching with horror as Nate sheds his pants and wades into the water, yelping at the cold.  
  
“This is so much better,” Nate says, lifting his arms to the sky. “You don’t even understand, Brad. I’m finally free.”  
  
Brad’s breath catches in his throat. Nate looks so beautiful, pale and perfect in the moonlight. The water shimmers with reflected light and Nate’s eyes are so green, the color of something new, something growing.

*

  
  
“That water looks like it’s ball-shriveling cold,” Ray remarks. “The First Son has officially lost his mind.”  
  
“He just wants to get a little wild,” Walt says. “You don’t remember being eighteen, Person?”  
  
“I didn’t do this kind of shit when I was eighteen,” Ray says. “Mostly I watched a lot of NASCAR and tried to get slutty girls to fuck me.”  
  
“Charming,” Walt says.  
  
“What about you?” Ray asks as they watch Nate frolic in the river. “Were you a wild man, Hasser? I bet you were, like, an Eagle Scout and president of the Student Council—”  
  
“Wright told me you were on the Debate Team,” Walt says, the corners of his mouth turning up.  
  
“I fucking hate that dude,” Ray says, and he means it: Evan Wright is a nosy dick and obviously no one should ever tell him anything.  
  
“You’re not denying it?” Walt says, raising an eyebrow.  
  
“I was the master of the debate team, okay,” Ray says. “You can’t even fathom my debate skills, they were beyond comprehension—“  
  
“I believe it,” Walt says. “You do know how to run your mouth, that’s for sure.”  
  
“You wish you knew what I can do with my mouth,” Ray says, and God, he’s so gone when it comes to Hasser that his insults don’t even make sense anymore.  
  
Nate is climbing out of the water, and Brad is hastily trying to cover him up with the pants he discarded on the bank of the river.  
  
“We’re going to have to tell the President about this,” Walt says.  
  
“You’re prettier than me, you do it.”  
  
“Fuck you, Person.”  
  
“Just tell me where and when, baby.”

*

  
  
Damp but exhilarated, Nate convinces Brad to climb up to a rooftop overlooking an outdoor opera show. Brad resists half-heartedly, but secretly he wants to see the city from this point of view. Brad’s always felt that rooftops are safer than anywhere else: removed from the confusion below, above the fray.  
  
“This is incredible,” Nate says. “So beautiful.”  
  
It is beautiful – the buildings spread out in front of them are alive with tiny glittering lights, a blanket of stars. Brad’s been here before a couple times, once on the President’s detail and once as a pit stop when he was still in the Corps, but he’s never seen it like this. He remembers how the military brochures promised him world travel, one of many reasons the idea of becoming a Marine appealed to him. Technically the job lived up to that promise, but there’s something inherently fucked about promoting travel as job perk when most of the time you’re sent to exotic locales to blow them up.  
  
“It’s amazing what you can see with a little bit of distance,” Nate whispers.  
  
Brad straightens, trying to focus his thoughts.   
  
“I don’t know why, but I feel like I can talk to you,” Nate says. “I don’t even know you.”  
  
“Maybe that’s why,” Brad says, and Nate glances over at him, face registering surprise, then comprehension.  
  
The air fills with the sounds of singing. Nate pulls his knees into his chest like he’s trying to make himself as small as possible.  
  
“This is crazy,” Nate says. “I never get to do things like this. To be alone like this.”  
  
“Hey, what am I, chopped liver?” Brad jokes.  
  
“You know what I mean,” Nate says.  
  
Brad doesn’t know what he means, not really. Brad spends a lot of time alone. He always has.  
  
“There are so many things wrong with this world,” Nate says. His words are still slightly slurred but his eyes are bright. “I just...I don't want to sit around and do nothing because I'm too scared to put myself out there, to take any risks and be outside my comfort zone. You know?”  
  
Brad watches him silently. Nate is all angles and soft eyes, his face shadowed in the low light.  
  
“I'm going to Dartmouth in three months,” Nate continues. He sounds angry. “I keep thinking that I'm just going to do there what I've always done.”  
  
“What's that?” Brad asks.  
  
“Learn about the world,” Nate says, “but not really be a part of it. I want to experience the world, not just watch things happen from the sidelines.”  
  
“You are experiencing the world in college,” Brad says. “College is a way of experiencing the world.”  
  
Nate turns to look at Brad, and he's so open it hurts. Brad wants to touch him, to squeeze his shoulder or hold his hand, to tell him this will work itself out, that things will not always feel this impossible. But that's not okay, not allowed. That's not his job.  
  
“This is going to sound stupid,” Nate says, “but sometimes I think I should join the Marines, for the challenge. To feel something real for once.”  
  
Brad feels cold. He remembers nights in Iraq when the temperature dropped and the sweat inside his Mopp suit turned to ice. He would tell himself he was shivering from cold and not fear. The skies lit up with the fireworks of warfare, bombs so beautiful against the backdrop of the night sky when you didn't see where they fell and what (who) they hit. He remembers shivering in his ranger grave and waiting, waiting, waiting for it to all make sense.  
  
Iraq was pretty fucking real. But most of the time it was surreal, and not in a beautiful way either. Not in the way it's surreal to be on a rooftop with the president's still-tipsy son, listening to the sounds of mingled voices below, gentle, interlaced harmonies.   
  
When Brad hears fireworks these days he has to remind himself _I am not going to die I am not going to die_.  
  
“Don't join the Marines,” Brad says. His voice sounds rough to his own ears.  
  
Nate's eyes narrow slightly, and Brad can see him curl his hand into a fist in his lap.  
  
“You don't seem like the type who'd be very good at just following orders,” Brad says, and Nate's face shifts, from incipient anger to a slow, sweet smile.  
  
“You may have a point,” Nate says.

*

  
  
Brad wakes at sunrise with Nate Fick lying against him, dead asleep. He curses himself for nodding off – he may not be recon anymore, but that’s not an excuse to let his guard down.  
  
He’s momentarily struck by Nate, so peaceful in sleep, with his long fringe of eyelashes and smooth, lightly freckled skin. He’s hit with a sudden, strong urge to touch him. He wants to know if Nate’s skin is as soft as it looks.   
  
He looks away.  
  
“Hey,” he murmurs, shaking Nate’s shoulder, trying to dislodge him gently. Nate opens his eyes slowly and stares up at Brad with a mixture of curiosity and confusion.  
  
“Am I still dreaming?” Nate says.  
  
“You’re awake, unfortunately,” Brad says.  
  
Nate gazes up at the clear brightening sky, and shakes his head.   
  
“What did I do last night?”  
  
“You went swimming,” Brad says.  
  
Nate rubs at his eyes with the flat of his palm and straightens so he’s sitting upright. “I should probably call my Mom. When she doesn’t know where I am, she worries.”  
  
Brad hands him his cell. “You can use this.”  
  
Nate looks at him from under his eyelashes. “Thank you. And – just thank you for everything, Brad. I really appreciate it.”  
  
“No problem,” Brad says.  
  
“I’ll be out of your hair soon,” Nate says. “I know I’m probably totally cramping your style.”  
  
“No, no, you’re not,” Brad says, and he means it. Nate might be kind of a cheap drunk with a penchant for spontaneous nudity, but last night was still the most fun Brad’s had in…as long as he can remember.  
  
“Glad to hear it,” Nate says, and smiles that smile that makes Brad’s insides feel like jelly.  
  
And okay – that? That might become a problem.

 

**[3]**

  
  
“I’m okay, Mom,” Nate says, shifting uncomfortably. He thinks he may still have sand in his underwear. “I swear, I’m fine.”  
  
“You shouldn’t have taken off like that,” she says, but she sounds suspiciously calm. “I was really worried, Nathaniel. I want you to enjoy yourself, and I’m not trying to keep you in a cage—“  
  
“Yeah, well…I want to go to Berlin by myself, then. Remember how I told you I wanted to—“  
  
“Nate?” His mom’s voice suddenly has a sharp edge to it. “I think you should come back here right now. We need to talk about what you’ve been doing, and—“  
  
“What happened to not keeping me in a cage?” Nate says. His face heats. “I’m doing fine on my own. I’ll meet up with you in Berlin and we’ll fly back together and nothing will happen to me, okay?”  
  
“No, Nate, you need to be here, , _now_. This is not okay! This is not what we discussed—”  
  
“Bye, Mom,” Nate says, and clicks off the phone with an irritated flourish.  
  
“Problem?” he hears Brad say, and Nate turns to look at him. Brad’s hair glints golden in the sunlight, and his inscrutable eyes change color, from grey to blue.  
  
“Not really,” Nate says. “It’s a problem easily solved, anyway.”  
  
Brad raises an eyebrow. “Solved how?”  
  
Nate slings Captain America’s leather jacket over one shoulder and says, “By getting on a train.”

*

  
  
“I don’t know if this is wise, Nate,” Brad says. “I mean – I trust your judgment, I do, but isn’t your mom going to be upset?”  
  
“She’ll get over it,” Nate says, and slides money across the ticket counter. “One for Berlin, please.”  
  
“I think I should come with you,” Brad says. “You’ve never been to Berlin before, right? I’ve been, and—“  
  
Nate looks back at Brad. “Hey, if you want to come, I’m not going to stop you, but I don’t need a fucking bodyguard. I can take care of myself.”  
  
“I’m sure you can,” Brad says, but he looks uncharacteristically anxious. “I was just thinking that…I could use a trip. This city’s feeling claustrophobic, you know?”  
  
 _Is Brad losing it?_ Nate wonders. Last night they fell asleep on a rooftop under the stars, not exactly the most claustrophobic of scenarios. Maybe Brad doesn’t feel the same way as Nate does about open sky.  
  
He shrugs in reply. “Whatever you want, dude. It’s a free country.”  
  
“Okay,” Brad says, eyes scanning Nate’s face. “Okay, I’m coming with you.”  
  
As they climb aboard the train, Nate thinks about how people used to say that to him – _it’s a free country_ – and he’d think, _What a fucking joke._   
  
He loves his mom more than anything, but seriously, she has got to let him go. Let him make his own history.  
  
“ _Ich bin ein Berliner_ ,” Nate murmurs as the train begins to move.   
  
Sitting across from him, Brad smiles, and his eyes crinkling at the corners.   
  
“I am a jelly doughnut,” he deadpans, and Nate finds himself smiling too.

*

  
  
Nate falls asleep to the rhythm of the train and wakes some minutes later when something falls against him heavily. Something that smells a lot like weed and cheap booze.  
  
“Whoa there,” Nate hears Brad say, and when he opens his eyes he sees a chubby dude with dark, messy hair and an impressive ‘stache sprawled between them, looking very comfortable indeed.  
  
“Hey, dudes,” the guy says. He has a lilting accent – Nate would guess he’s some kind of Middle Eastern. “Do you mind if I crash here?”  
  
Nate looks over at Brad, who seems none-too-pleased. “I don’t know, we—“  
  
“I am Meesh,” the guy says, taking Nate’s hand and shaking it. “I am pleased you are here and welcome you as a friend.”  
  
“Uh…thank you,” Nate says. “Where are you headed?”  
  
“Anywhere the wind blows,” Meesh says. “I am as free as air. I wander wherever there is good food and drink and people, where—“  
  
“That’s great, man,” Brad interrupts, “but we’re a bit crowded in here, so maybe you could let the wind blow you elsewhere—“  
  
“Dude! I want you to have this,” Meesh cuts him off, and pulls a small plastic baggy containing something suspiciously green and herb-like.  
  
“Oh, hell no,” Brad says. “That is a bad idea. That’s—“  
  
“Relax, man!” Meesh says, clapping Brad on the shoulder. “I can tell you come from America, where they have a war on ganja, but you are in Europe. They do not mind the cannabis here. They embrace it. You should embrace it too.”  
  
Nate stares at the plastic baggy. He’s never smoked weed before. He’s thought about it plenty of times, been offered it at parties, but he was always worried he’d get caught and get in trouble. He was worried he’d get his _mom_ in trouble.  
  
 _Whatever_ , Nate thinks. _Nobody’s gonna know._  
  
“Thank you,” Nate says, taking the bag. “That’s very kind of you.”  
  
“I have something else too,” Meesh says, and presents him with a tiny white envelope. “Take this with you wherever you’re headed, and plant them in the ground. It will grow like – like a weed, dudes. And this way we can help the rest of the world embrace the cannabis more fully, even in America! This is my gift to the world.”  
  
Brad’s cheeks are flushed, and he looks like he wants to strangle Meesh, but Nate’s enjoying his company.   
  
“I will totally do that at Dartmouth,” he says. “So should we – I mean, can we smoke this now or—“  
  
“Oh no, save the Mary Jane for Venice,” Meesh advises. “It will be much more enjoyable to smoke up and wander the water-laced streets.”  
  
“You’re awesome,” Nate says. “Seriously, man, you are the coolest—“  
  
“Wait a minute,” Brad says. “Did you just say Venice?”

*

  
  
“We seriously need to unfuck this situation,” Ray says. “This is the most retarded thing I have ever witnessed since I joined the Secret Service, and let me tell you, I have witnessed a lot of retardation.”  
  
Walt eyes him steadily, looking typically unimpressed. “Somehow it doesn’t surprise me that you’ve been privy to a lot of retarded shit, Person.”  
  
“Will you give it a rest, Hasser?” Ray snaps. “This is some straight up bullshit that could potentially get us both fucking fired, and you’re still making your dumb, sarcastic little remarks. Why don’t you just sit there and be pretty, then, if you’re going to be so fucking useless?”  
  
“Does this work for you, this tough guy shit?” Walt asks. “Do you have a bunch of hotties lining up all like, ‘Oh, Ray, baby, give it to me, I want it…’”  
  
Ray blinks. He’s distracted by the soft curve of Walt’s upper lip and the glint in his grey-blue eyes. He wants to lean forward and lick—  
  
“Oh my God,” Walt says, exasperated. “You’re perving on me right now, aren’t you?”  
  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ray says, the words running together.  
  
“You’re the one who needs to focus,” Walt says. “We’ll get to Berlin, we’ll find Fick – it’ll be fine. Yes, this is some stupid shit, but it’s not a complete disaster. We can—“  
  
Ray is distracted by the vibration of his phone. He glances down, sees a text message from Colbert, clicks it open and reads it silently.  
  
“Hey, guess what?” Ray says with false cheer, and shoves his phone in Walt’s face. “We’re on the wrong fucking train.”  
  
Walt’s eyes widen and he licks his lips, and – fucking A, Ray is pretty sure he’s doing that on purpose.  
  
“What is it you were saying about this not being a complete disaster?”

*

  
  
“This is a complete disaster,” Brad says, trailing behind Nate, who’s following Meesh down one of the narrow footpaths of Venice.  
  
“How can you say that?” Nate asks, shooting Brad a smile over his shoulder. “We’re in Venice, Brad. There is no wrong here.”  
  
Nate’s feeling pretty awesome, and not only because Meesh smoked him up the second he stepped off the train. Venice is supernaturally beautiful: water water everywhere, and the light glints and the city glows, and Nate is pulsing with it.  
  
“Nate,” Brad says, grasping Nate’s arm. Nate turns and their eyes lock, and Brad’s expression shifts from anxiety to something else, something Nate’s not quite sure he understands.  
  
“It’s okay,” Nate says softly. “We’ll go to Berlin tomorrow on the next train, but right now we’re here, so why not enjoy it, right?” He spreads his arms wide as if he’s embracing the landscape. “This city is crazy!”  
  
Nate feels crazy being here. Maybe it’s the weed, or the salty sweet air, or the fact that they’re standing in a city that allows people to walk on water. Maybe it’s accidentally stumbling on this impossible place, free-falling into Venice and yet still being here on his own terms.  
  
“Just look at this place,” Nate says.  
  
Brad’s eyes skim their surroundings, and Nate can see his shoulders relax a fraction, chin lifting.  
  
“It is pretty crazy,” Brad concedes.  
  
“Hugs, dudes!” Meesh says. “Hugs for my American friends!”  
  
Brad looks slightly terrified, but eventually gives in when Meesh tugs him into an embrace. Standing in the middle of the crowded street, they must look like idiots, but Nate doesn’t care. He doesn’t care because he is here, and this is now, and for once here and now is exactly where he wants to be.

*

  
  
“God, I am starving,” Nate says.  
  
“I can’t imagine why,” Brad mutters, and Nate elbows him in the side, eliciting a grunt.  
  
“We’re in Italy,” Nate says. “We’ve got to have at least one awesome meal – it’s required. Don’t you need nourishment, or are you too cool for food like you were too cool for swimming?”  
  
“This looks good,” Brad says, ignoring him. He’s gesturing to a tiny restaurant on their left, white trimmed and quaint, with a view of (what else?) the water.  
  
“Cool,” Nate says. “Let’s do it.”  
  
A waiter seats them, gracing them with a long stream of Italian that Nate only partially understands. Nate is mildly competent in most European languages – he likes languages, okay? - but his comprehension falls apart when he’s tired or…apparently, stoned.   
  
They order pasta with various trappings and watch the sun set over the water in silence, embracing the ocean with fingers of light.  
  
“Where did Meesh go, anyway?” Brad asks. “He disappeared.”  
  
Nate shrugs. “Meesh is a free spirit.”  
  
“I thought you were a free spirit,” Brad says, smirking. “Raised by liberal, intellectual parents who wanted you to have a purpose, right? To be the change you want to see in the world?”  
  
Nate’s shoulders tighten. He feels angry, but he’s not sure why.   
  
“My mom used to be a social worker. She wants me to change the world, sure. Whose parents don’t?”  
  
Brad looks down at his lap, hands fiddling with the cloth napkin. “Mine.”  
  
Nate tilts his head to one side. “Your parents wanted you to maintain the status quo?”  
  
“My parents sent me to military school,” Brad says. “So yeah, I think they basically wanted me to learn to follow rules.”  
  
“What rules?” Nate asks.  
  
Nate has been curious about Brad since the moment he saw him outside that club, but the more time they’ve spent together, the more he wants to know everything about him – where he came from, how he ended up here, what makes him tick. Brad is so quiet and contained, so unflappable and steady. It’s unnerving and impressive and…possibly kind of sexy.  
  
“I don’t know,” Brad admits. “They wanted me to follow someone’s rules, even if I wouldn’t follow theirs.”  
  
“So did you?” Nate asks. “I mean…follow the rules?”  
  
The waiter brings them large plates of pasta then, loaded down with rich red sauce, and Brad seems to forget the question as they dig in. The food is so good Nate wants to marry it in a tasteful ceremony right here, surrounded by open water and history and a thousand channels that lead out to sea.  
  
“Brad?” Nate prods, and Brad looks up. “Did you follow the rules?”  
  
“I went into the Marines,” Brad says softly.  
  
Nate’s heart drops.   
  
_Don’t join the Marines. You don't seem like the type who'd be very good at just following orders._  
  
Nate feels like such an idiot. Brad let him ramble drunkenly about wanting to experience something real, like joining the military would be some kind of fucking field trip, and meanwhile he’d—  
  
“Um, Nate?” Brad says. “Do you have any money? Because all I have is these.”  
  
He dumps a couple crumpled packets of pot seeds on the table. Nate digs into his pockets and finds his money clip is gone, and in its place is a little while envelope with a smiley face and _enjoy Venice, dudes!_ written on it in pencil.  
  
“Meesh,” Nate says. “That motherfucker.”  
  
“We are so screwed,” Brad frets, but Nate doesn’t have time for this, because when he looks up he sees Hasser rounding the corner, looking like a man on a mission.  
  
Nate should have known his Mom wouldn’t trust him to take care of himself. He doesn’t know what he was thinking.  
  
“Nate Fick!” Hasser calls out. “Mr. Fick, sir, please—“  
  
“I have to go,” Nate says, backing away from the table.  
  
“Nate, what are you—”  
  
“I have to go,” he repeats, and turns and runs.  
  
Nate feels like an asshole for stiffing them on the bill, but he left the rest of the weed on the table, so maybe they can…sell it or something.  
  
“Nate!” he hears Person shout after them, but now he’s running. He can feel Brad close behind him, keeping up with his pace, and Nate thinks, _I don’t know why I’m surprised that the former Marine is in good shape._  
  
He stumbles down an embankment, ducking out of sight.  
  
“You and your water,” Brad says, looking both confused and amused. They’re standing next to a narrow canal. “What’re you going to do, strip down and swim to Berlin?”  
  
“I just couldn’t stay there,” Nate says. “I—“  
  
“Brothers, do you need a gondola?”  
  
Nate whips around to see a tall, well-muscled man standing near the bridge. He’s good-looking with a shock of dark hair and sharp cheekbones, and he’d be intimidating except for how he’s smiling gently like an affable puppy.  
  
“I’m Rudy,” the man says, sticking out his hand for them to shake. “You seem like you might like a moonlit ride – let the water allow you to escape the prison of the everyday.”  
  
Nate wants to escape so much more than that.   
  
“Rudy,” Nate says, “it’s good to meet you. I’m Nate.”  
  
“Good to meet you, my brother,” Rudy says, shaking Nate’s hand.   
  
“And you, my man,” he says, shaking Brad’s, “are clearly a wise warrior.”  
  
“I’m Brad,” Brad mutters. He looks kind of freaked out, and Nate can’t really blame him. After Meesh and his pot packets and pickpocketing, Rudy’s psychic gondolier act feels like the kind of crazy that might get someone killed.  
  
“The thing is, Rudy?” Nate says. “We’d love a ride, but we don’t have any money. Someone stole our wallets.”  
  
Rudy’s face contorts into an expression of sorrow. “Oh, how terrible. The world doesn’t reward this sort of cruelty in the long run, though sometimes it does seem to indulge it temporarily.”  
  
“Yeah, well,” Brad says, “it sucks, but we understand if you can’t – we’re not trying to rip you off—“  
  
“No, no, join me, please,” Rudy says. “It’s late, and you’re lost. Let me help you find what you’re looking for.”  
  
Brad and Nate exchange looks as they climb into the gondola of _Is he for real?_ but truthfully Rudy seems like the best kind of batty – charitable and benevolent.  
  
“I’m guessing you’re wondering what all that was back there,” Nate says when they’re settled in the boat. “I feel like maybe I owe you an explanation—“  
  
“No, it’s okay,” Brad says. “I don’t need to know what you’re running from. Only where we’re going.”  
  
Nate feels his heart swell with affection for Brad. He’s not sure what he did to deserve such an amazing friend. In spite of his occasionally sharp edges, Brad’s been nothing but tolerant of Nate’s mercurial moods and bizarre requests.  
  
“I know I said this before, but…thank you,” Nate says. “For everything. I know you don’t really know me, and I’ve been acting kind of crazy, and—“  
  
“Nate,” Brad says. Nate feels Brad’s hand cover his, a warm and solid presence. “You don’t need to thank me. Seriously, I—“  
  
“I couldn’t have done this without you,” Nate says.  
  
Brad swallows and looks away. “I think you would have done just fine on your own.”  
  
That’s when Nate moves forward and kisses him.  
  
It’s not a premeditated kiss, not even slightly. This kiss is like all aspects of this journey – spontaneous, reckless, a little bit dangerous.   
  
He only means for it to be a _thank you_ kiss, a kiss of _I’m glad we are here, I’m glad **we** are here_. But then Brad inhales sharply and opens his mouth against Nate’s, and suddenly it’s so much more. It’s a kiss of _I want this_ , it’s a kiss of _I want you_ , it’s heat and Brad’s tongue licking his lips and Brad’s hands cupping Nate’s cheeks and their mouths moving together like the tiny waves lapping at the side of the gondola, all part of the sway.  
  
When they separate, Brad’s eyes are wild and he’s breathing with difficulty. He closes his eyes for a brief moment and Nate thinks, _I want to see you even more undone than this._  
  
“Brothers, where should I take you?” Rudy says, oblivious to what they’ve been doing as he navigates the gondola across the water. “Where are you staying?”  
  
Brad still looks shell-shocked, so Nate clears his throat and says, “We don’t have anywhere to stay, actually.”  
  
Rudy blinks down at them, smiling beneficently.  
  
“Of course you do,” he says. “You can stay with me.”

*

  
  
Rudy’s house is small but comfortable, filled with fitness equipment and books about the Tao and martial arts and mind/body consciousness. He shows them the guest bedroom, which is outfitted with a double bed, and tells them, “If you need anything I’m down the hall. Please ask.”  
  
“This is really too kind of you,” Brad says stiffly. “I wish we could offer you compensation—“  
  
“I don’t need your money,” Rudy says with a warm smile. “Your presence is payment enough. Sleep well, and may your dreams be filled with revelation.”  
  
As he disappears into the darkness of the hallway, Brad lets out a soft chuckle. “That guy is a trip and a half,” he says. “But he’s been amazingly nice to us, so here’s hoping he won’t kill us in our sleep.”  
  
“Brad,” Nate says quietly, and Brad’s head jerks up.   
  
He focuses his eyes on Nate, fixing him with one of his intense, no-b.s. stares that makes Nate feel unsteady, like a chair missing a leg.  
  
“That kiss—“ he starts.  
  
“—was wrong,” Brad cuts him off. “I shouldn’t have—“  
  
“But why?” Nate asks. “Why not?”   
  
He moves forward, slipping his t-shirt over his head. Brad’s eyes widen, and his gaze drops to skim Nate’s chest before he realizes what he’s doing and looks away.  
  
“Because you didn’t know what you were doing,” Brad says. “You didn’t mean—“  
  
“How do you know what I meant?” Nate says.   
  
He steps closer, letting one of his hands flutter over Brad’s bicep. Brad’s wearing only a tank top and jeans, and Nate can see the curve of muscle, all the places he’s hard and soft.  
  
Brad takes in a quick breath. “Nate—“  
  
“I know what I’m doing,” Nate says. “I know what I meant.”  
  
This time when they kiss Brad only hesitates for a split second before kissing him back. The kiss is hard and fast and not sweet, not really. Kissing Brad is like falling. It’s like reaching into darkness and not knowing what might reach back. It’s like sitting on a rooftop overlooking an old, old city and feeling closer to the sky.  
  
But then Brad breaks away, and this time and in this light Nate recognizes the look in his eyes for what it is. It’s not passion or lust.  
  
It’s fear.  
  
“I can’t do this,” Brad says, his voice scratchy and low. “I’m sorry, Nate, but I can’t.”  
  
Nate’s the son of a politician; he knows to listen carefully to the words people choose. Brad didn’t say _I won’t_. He said _I can’t_. There is no room to be convinced. There is no way for Nate to get what he wants, what he knows Brad wants too.  
  
“Okay,” Nate says softly.   
  
He climbs into bed and pulls the covers over himself. He feels more naked than he did swimming in the Vltava, and even under the blankets he’s cold.  
  
He hears Brad flick off the light and settle onto the floor beside the bed. He listens to Brad breathe in the darkness, and does not sleep.   
  
  
  
  
 

**[4]**

  
  
  
  
Brad wakes up in the morning from a dream about Nate to discover that Nate’s not there.  
  
 _Shit_ , he thinks. _Motherfucker, shit, fuck, fuck—_  
  
His phone rings.  
  
“Dude, I am not trying to be an asshole,” Ray says with nary a “Hello,” “but you suck at your job.”  
  
“Hey, if you were better at your job, I wouldn’t even be in this position,” Brad snaps.  
  
“That is a fucking ridiculous statement and I resent it. We both know Nate Fick is crazy and stubborn and eighteen years old and kind of an idiot. Please get over whiskey tango foxtrot is wrong with you so we can focus on getting Nate back to his very important mother and not losing our jobs.”  
  
“He’s not here,” Brad says, “which means he could be anywhere, and—“  
  
“Brad, I said _you_ were bad at your job. We aren’t,” Ray says. “We know where Nate is.”

*

  
  
Of course Nate would hitchhike across the Austrian border, because Nate doesn’t believe in doing anything the easy way. Nate would rather be a giant pain in Brad’s ass.  
  
It takes Brad the better part of a day to locate Nate, a process that involves a very apologetic ride from Rudy (apparently Nate told him he was meeting up with Brad somewhere later) in which he learns all about improving his dharma so this doesn’t happen again; borrowing a motorcycle from a house by the side of the road; and a lot of prayer. When he finally does see Nate standing by the side of the road on a bridge over a lake, he’s so relieved he feels like his heart might give out.   
  
And then Nate clambers up over the railing and jumps off.  
  
Brad swears his heart stops.  
  
“Nate!” he shouts, and runs to the railing to see…nothing.  
  
He doesn’t think: he climbs over the side and dives, not caring how high up they are, how far he has to fall. All he can think is _please please please don’t let this be the end._  
  
He hits the water with the force of a sledgehammer, but he recovers quickly – he’s a trained diver, after all, and he knows how to do a water rescue. But when he surfaces, he sees the rescue won’t be necessary. Nate is floating a few feet away, staring at him, wide-eyed.  
  
“Are you okay?” he asks, and Brad thinks, _That was supposed to be my line._  
  
“I’m fine,” Brad says. “Nate, I thought—“  
  
“You know what, I’m not even surprised you found me,” Nate says. “Lord knows it’s hard to hide from the Marines. They’re so good at finding things, too, like those WMDs, and Osama Bin Laden…”  
  
That’s a low blow, but Nate’s upset, and for good reason, so Brad lets it go.   
  
“Nate, just – look, I’m sorry. I’m sorry that last night—“  
  
“Can we not talk about last night?” Nate says, his voice tight. “I just jumped off a bridge to try to forget it ever happened. You kind of killed my adrenaline high.”  
  
Brad feels like such shit. This is an impossible situation, so fucked up in so many ways. He wants to tell Nate that it took every ounce of self-control he had not to throw him down on the bed in Venice and kiss him senseless. But he can’t tell him, because he’s not allowed.  
  
“I’m so angry right now,” Nate says. “You don’t even know, Brad. I run but I can’t hide. I’m so tired—“  
  
“You don’t need to hide,” Brad says. “You don’t need to run from me.”  
  
“You told me you only needed to know where we’re going,” Nate says. “Here’s an update – we’re not going anywhere. I’m not going anywhere with you.”  
  
“Nate—“  
  
But Nate’s already wading to shore and climbing up onto the bank. His wet clothes stick to every part of him, outlining his lean torso and tight muscles. Brad sucks in a difficult breath.  
  
Brad wants to touch him. He wants to reach out and touch him and tell him the truth: that he’d wanted everything Nate wanted last night, and more. That he still wants it, more than Nate can possibly know.  
  
“I don’t know what to think about you,” Nate says. “Just – find your own way to Berlin, okay?”  
  
“I’m not a bad guy,” Brad says, following Nate out of the water, shivering as the cool air hits his damp skin. “I didn’t mean to lead you on.”  
  
“Yeah, well, you know what?” Nate says. “I’m tired of living my life just in theory. I can’t deal with you if you’re going to give me all these mixed messages. You kiss me, then you tell me it’s wrong. You kiss me again, and then you tell me you can’t. Why won’t you just say what you really feel?”  
  
Brad feels like he’s standing on a precipice, inches from falling. Nate was on that precipice too, but he didn’t care. He already jumped.  
  
“I can’t stand the thought of anyone else touching you,” Brad blurts out. “I can’t—“  
  
“You didn’t even want to touch me,” Nate says, biting off the words.  
  
 _Nobody ever asks me what I want_ , Brad thinks. In fact, he can’t remember the last time someone did. For years it’s only been, _Brad, do this, Brad, don’t talk back, Sgt. Colbert, this is our R.O.E…  
  
Agent Colbert, I want you to keep my son._  
  
That’s all that Brad’s try to do with Nate: Keep him. Hold him back. Ensure his safety.  
  
But safety can be overrated.  
  
“God, Nate,” Brad says, his voice wrecked. “How do you know what I want?”  
  
Nate looks at him with tired eyes. “What do you want, Brad?”  
  
This time Brad gives up on words entirely. They’ve never done him any favors anyway. He presses his hand to the chilled skin of Nate’s neck, pulls him forward and kisses him.  
  
Nate makes a muffled sound of surprise, a gasp that goes directly to Brad’s dick. He slides one hand over Nate’s hip and presses their bodies together, feeling Nate long and solid against him.  
  
“Don’t fuck with me,” Nate says when they separate to breathe. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are the brightest green Brad’s ever seen.  
  
“I want you,” Brad says. “You are what I want.”  
  
The sun is setting over the water, rapidly clothing them in darkness. Nate leans forward and nips at Brad’s lower lip, his hands cupping Brad’s face. For a moment they just breathe against each other, so close, so close.  
  
“We don’t have to rush,” Brad says as Nate pushes his hands under Brad’s wet shirt and tugs it over his head.   
  
“Fuck, I don’t care if we take it fast or slow,” Nate says. “I just want you to touch me.”  
  
Brad exhales as Nate skims his hands over Brad’s torso, pinching one of his nipples between his thumb and forefinger. Nate’s eyes glimmer in the fading light, and he worries his lower lip.  
  
“Have you ever—“ Brad says.  
  
“No,” Nate says, and damn it if that doesn’t make Brad feel a little dizzy. “I mean, I’ve fooled around with girls, yes. But never with a guy.”  
  
Nate keeps one hand pressed against Brad’s chest as he reaches out to touch Brad’s cheek, guiding their mouths back together. Nate kisses like Brad would expect him to – everything out in the open, holding nothing back. But when he touches his tongue to the dip of Brad’s lower lip and cups Brad through his jeans, Brad thinks, _Do not underestimate Nate Fick, Jesus._  
  
“Is that bad, me being...” Nate asks, and Brad can see a flicker of fear in Nate’s eyes. “I mean – do you not want to –“  
  
“You seem like you think pretty well on his feet,” Brad says. “I’m not worried.”  
  
Nate’s mouth quirks a bit at that, and Brad has to kiss him again. The kiss grows so intense that Brad overbalances and they go tumbling to the ground, Nate sprawled across Brad on the hard-packed earth. Brad grunts and tries to sit up, but before he can, Nate’s straddling him, and okay, this works too.  
  
“I do think pretty well on my feet,” Nate says. “I think pretty well on my knees, too.”  
  
Brad has to close his eyes at that. It’s too much – Nate’s wicked grin and his warm hands and everything, everything that is this moment.  
  
“Don’t do that,” Nate says. “I want you to look at me when I do this.”  
  
Brad’s eyes flutter open in time to see Nate reach between their bodies and unbutton Brad’s jeans, sliding his hand into Brad’s boxers. Through the clammy fabric Nate’s hand is an especially welcome shock, and there is no hesitation when he wraps his fingers around Brad’s cock.  
  
“Fuck,” Brad whispers, and steadies himself with a hand on Nate’s hip. “Nate—“  
  
“You like this?” Nate asks.   
  
His tone is one of both trepidation and defiance, and it makes Brad ache.  
  
“Yes,” Brad moans as Nate strokes up, the movement firm but slow. Brad does like this. He loves this. He loves being with Nate, being around him, loves his touch and his sweet smile, loves that he knows Nate is more than any of those things, more than a boy gone wild or the President’s son.  
  
He reaches for Nate then, fumbling with Nate’s jeans like he’s the nervous virgin. Nate keeps stroking him even as Brad unzips his pants and presses his hand against Nate’s erection. He can feel Nate tense, his breath forming a puff of white in the breezy night air.  
  
When Brad hesitates, Nate huffs out a laugh. “Jesus Christ, Brad. I’m a virgin, but I’m not made of glass.”  
  
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Brad mumbles, and Nate’s grip tightens around him, tight enough to make him groan.   
  
“Then shut the fuck up and do it already,” Nate says, and Brad gladly obeys, pushing his hand into Nate’s underwear and encircling his cock. Nate bucks his hips, fucking into Brad’s fist, and Brad has to struggle to breathe.  
  
It doesn’t take long. They jerk each other off between kisses, swallowing each other’s moans and ragged breaths. When Nate comes he’s gorgeous and uncontrolled, lips parted and eyelashes fluttering. The sounds he makes are pure sin. Brad doesn’t know if anyone else is around or if they can hear them, and he doesn’t care.  
  
They lie entwined on the sand afterwards, sticky and shivering, then wade into the river again to clean themselves off. The moonlight on the water makes everything a mirror, creating a hazy, reflected glow under the pinprick fires of a million far away stars.  
  
“Tomorrow we should go to Berlin,” Nate says as they huddle together under their jackets, sharing heat.  
  
“To meet up with your mom?” Brad says.  
  
Nate’s eyes are blurry soft and not quite readable.  
  
“Yeah,” Nate says. “But first there’s one more thing I want to do.”

*

  
  
Brad wakes the next morning feeling achy but wonderful. Nate fell asleep with his body twisted around Brad’s, his cheek pressed to Nate’s chest. He mumbles something in his sleep as Brad shifts beneath him. He looks so peaceful that Brad stills and watches him sleep, Nate’s chest rising and falling in tiny, controlled waves.  
  
Brad blinks up at the sky, watching it brighten as the sun climbs higher.   
  
Three days. He has known Nate Fick for three days. He always scoffed at friends who told him they fell for someone in seconds, but now….   
  
He doesn’t know if he thinks this is wrong. Professionally, certainly, it is, and it may very well get him fired. The strange thing is, he doesn’t care. He’d happily give it up. He’d give up much more if it meant this could ever be more than a fling, if he could ever be more than just a bit player in Nate Fick’s rebellious phase.  
  
He knows that everything will change today in Berlin, that he will have to let Nate go, but that doesn’t stop him from wishing for some kind of miracle. Brad’s spent so much time seeking stability, he’d never imagined he'd want to keep running. Staring at Nate, though, he can see the appeal – traveling from place to place, never settling in. Never settling. Never letting the world lock you in.

*

  
  
  
The trip to Berlin is surprisingly uneventful, considering their travel trajectory thusfar. They hitch a ride from a couple of friendly Austrians that chatter on about America in heavily accented English, peppering them with questions about the girls and the mansions and the wild parties. Their perceptions of America seem to have been entirely shaped by watching The O.C. Nate laughs and occasionally puts in a word or tells a joke that sends them into hysterics. Brad just sits back and watches. He loves the way Nate’s mouth moves, shaping his words with precision and care.  
  
The Austrians drop them off at a place Nate specifies, though Brad’s not sure why. The city bustles around them, a bizarre contrast from the bucolic, isolated place they came from.   
  
“You said you wanted to do one more thing,” Brad says.   
  
“Yeah,” Nate says. He seems distracted, his eyes unfocused. “I do.”  
  
“Well, lead on, MacDuff,” Brad says cheerfully, but when he turns to look at Nate, Nate’s not smiling.  
  
“We’re here,” Nate says.  
  
It takes Brad a moment to understand what Nate is saying. All Brad can see is a chipping wall tattooed with graffiti.   
  
“Eighty-seven miles,” Nate murmurs. “There was eight-seven miles of this.”  
  
Oh. The Wall, not a wall. One of the few fragments that remains.  
  
Nate presses his hand against the scarred surface.  
  
 _“We welcome change and openness, for we believe that freedom and security go together, that the advance of human liberty can only strengthen the cause of world peace_ ,” Nate quotes.   
  
Brad realizes he’s holding his breath. He exhales.  
  
“Mr. Gorbachev, tear down that wall,” Brad says, under his breath, and Nate turns to look at him.  
  
“Did you ever…” Nate pauses, like he’s collecting the words in his mind. “When you were in the Marines, did you ever question what you were fighting for?”  
  
Brad thinks of the day Trombley, that trigger-happy asshole, gunned down two little kids. He can see the blood seeping through one of the boys’ shirts as he gasped for air. He can still feel the sting of the sand and the way the tears dried on his face, how he didn’t care what anyone thought about his combat readiness in that moment because he was so fucking furious.  
  
“Yes,” Brad says.  
  
“Why did you leave?” Nate asks.  
  
Brad feels unsteady. He presses his hand against the wall where Nate pressed his, mirroring his handprint.  
  
“Because I spent too much time questioning,” Brad says.  
  
He can hear Nate breathing next to him, slow and controlled.  
  
“I don’t know what I’m doing, Brad,” Nate says. “I have no fucking idea.”  
  
Nate’s eyes are so filled with pain. That rooftop in Prague seems so far away now, a distant memory. Even Venice no longer feels like it was real, like some elaborate fever dream.   
  
_I thought you were a free spirit._  
  
“You don’t need to know,” Brad says. “The truth is that nobody knows.”  
  
Nate’s eyes flicker to the ground. “That’s what I was afraid of.”  
  
Brad’s phone vibrates, an insistent buzz. He wants to throw it away, to pretend it doesn’t exist, but that’s the problem, isn’t it? Brad needs to stop pretending.  
  
“I have to take this, I’m sorry,” Brad says, and walks a few paces away to pick it up.  
  
“What’s up, Colbert,” Ray drawls. “You are in some deep shit, homes.”  
  
“He’s safe,” Brad says shortly.  
  
“We know,” Ray says, “because if he wasn’t, you wouldn’t be talking to me right now, because you would be dead. You might have noticed – the U.S. government doesn’t exactly fuck around in matters relating to the security of the president or people the president holds dear.”  
  
Brad feels suddenly, irrationally angry. “I’ve done everything asked of me. I’ve protected him, I didn’t reveal who I was, I got him to Berlin. I know I wasn’t conventional in my methods, but this isn’t exactly a typical detail, is it?”  
  
Ray snorts. “Fuck no it’s not. I don’t blame you, dude. But I’m just telling you that the President may not feel the same way as I do.”  
  
“Well, then that’s how it’s going to have to be,” Brad says.   
  
“We’re going to extract him in ten,” Ray says. “I wasn’t even supposed to give you a heads up, but—“  
  
“Thanks, Ray,” Brad says. “I appreciate it.”  
  
“Later, Iceman,” Ray says, and Brad clicks off the phone.  
  
When he turns Nate is standing right there, staring at him like he wants to light him on fire with only his eyes.  
  
“Are you—“ Brad starts to say.  
  
“Fuck you,” Nate snarls. “ _Fuck you_ , Brad Colbert.”  
  
Brad feels like someone punched him in the gut. Scratch that: he feels like someone shot him, and he’s bleeding out.  
  
“Did you—“  
  
“Yes, I heard you talking to Ray,” Nate says. “I can’t – I –“  
  
Nate seems momentarily at a loss for words.  
  
“I can’t believe I trusted you,” he says, finally.  
  
Brad wishes he could find the right words himself, but he doesn’t know if they exist.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Brad says, his voice hoarse.  
  
Nate stares at him for a moment, open-mouthed, like he wants to say something else, but he doesn’t.   
  
Instead, he turns and runs. This time, Brad doesn’t follow.  
  
  
  
  
 

**[5]**

  
  
  
“You’re so cute like that, with the sunglasses,” Ray says. “It’s really distracting.”  
  
Walt rolls his eyes, slipping his sunglasses off to say, “I think you need a new partner.”  
  
“Mmm,” Ray says, and leans forward to kiss Walt. “But then I wouldn’t get to spend all day trying not to ravage you.”  
  
“Hey, you know, I’m still here,” Nate says, dumping a stack of books onto the library table. “You could try being a bit more subtle.”  
  
“Yeah, because that’s Person in a nutshell,” Walt says. “ _Subtle._ ”  
  
“I’m going to study over there,” Nate says. “Try not to get thrown out, please.”  
  
“Tell Walt to stop being so adorable,” Ray says. “I’d be much more vigilant then.”  
  
“You are a model Secret Service agent,” Walt deadpans.  
  
“I know, right? I don’t know why I don’t have more medals and shit.”

*

  
  
Nate likes Dartmouth. He does. His classes are interesting and the people are smart and funny and treat him like he’s just another dude, like he doesn’t have a call sign and a front row seat to the State of the Union. College is normal in a lot of really awesome ways, ways that Nate especially appreciates having spent most of his life in a fishbowl.  
  
But it’s also kind of boring. Boring enough that he finds himself thinking about Brad more than he would like – Brad’s wide shoulders and warm smile and wry sense of humor, his big hands and light touch and heated kisses.  
  
He knows it’s fucked up. He doesn’t want to think about Brad. He hates Brad. He hates that Brad messed him around, that he made him believe he was really his friend and not just another agent paid to spend time with him.   
  
He really hated the look in Brad’s eyes when Nate left him in Berlin: the longing, the sadness.   
  
He hates that he liked Brad so much.  
  
So he sort of hates Walt when he takes him aside one day and says, “You know, Agent Colbert was only doing his job.”  
  
Nate bristles. “That’s sort of the point, isn’t it? He was only doing his job.”  
  
“He left the Service, Nate,” Walt says. “He lost his job.”  
  
Nate blinks. He didn’t realize that Brad got fired.  
  
“I’m just saying,” Walt says, “sometimes forgiveness is worth it. I mean, look at me and Ray. We’d never be together if I hadn’t forgiven him for being a totally irredeemable jackass.”  
  
Nate has to laugh at that.  
  
“Think about it,” Walt says, and slips a piece of paper into Nate’s hand.  
  
When he turns it over, there’s an address on it. _Brad’s Bikes_ , it says. _Oceanside, California._

*

  
  
On his winter break after Christmas, Nate drives from D.C. to Oceanside. He figures it gives him a lot of time to turn around, to change his mind.  
  
Nate has traveled a lot with his Mom, especially when she was campaigning, but he’s never done the whole cross-country road trip thing on his own. It’s peaceful and beautiful and long. Ray and Walt trail him at a decent distance, and sometimes, when it’s dark enough, Nate can pretend he’s actually alone, many miles behind him, open road ahead.  
  
But even though he has many hours on the road to think, he walks into that Oceanside motorcycle shop with no idea of what’s he going to say. The situation isn’t improved any by seeing Brad crouched down on the floor of the garage, tinkering with the frame of a Yamaha. He’s wearing an undershirt and jeans, and he’s got a streak of grease across one cheek. He’s utterly absorbed.  
  
“Brad,” Nate says, and Brad’s head jerks up so fast he almost knocks himself out.  
  
“Jesus Christ,” Brad breathes. “ _Nate_.”  
  
Nate has always liked the way Brad said his name, but he likes it especially right now: the intensity, the slight waver. He sounds like he did that night beside the lake: _God, Nate, how do you know what I want?_  
  
“I – I heard you were here,” Nate says.   
  
He curses himself inwardly for his own stupidity. How is he the son of a politician and half the time he can’t figure out what the fuck to say?  
  
Brad rises to his feet, and Nate is reminded of just how tall he is. His expression is quizzical, but there are no traces of anger.  
  
“Yeah, well,” Brad says, “I had to figure out some place to go when I stopped following your lead.”  
  
Nate runs his hand through his hair. It’s growing out now, no longer military-precision short. Poke is an awesome dude, but his vision of the new Nate turned out not to be much like Nate’s own.  
  
The thing is, Brad is so much a part of that new Nate, part of its inspiration and its creation.   
  
Nate’s got to stop pretending otherwise.  
  
He steps forward, narrowing the distance between them. Brad wipes his hands on his jeans.  
  
“I’m sorry you lost your job,” Nate says.  
  
“Why?” Brad says. “I’m not.”  
  
“They shouldn’t have fired you,” Nate says. “You did everything my mom asked you to.”  
  
“Not everything,” Brad says.  
  
Nate cocks his head to his side.  
  
“There’s this thing they tell you in training,” Brad says. “Be vigilant. Be present. Be willing to take a bullet. But don’t get too involved.”  
  
“That’s stupid,” Nate says. “That’s—“  
  
“For me, it was impossible,” Brad says. “It was the same way in the Corps.”  
  
Brad steps closer, and Nate can feel his body heat, can smell the axl grease.  
  
“I got involved,” Brad says simply.  
  
Nate kisses Brad then. There is no option otherwise. He is here, and Brad is close, and Nate’s been dreaming about Brad for months. He’s tired of dreaming. Brad tastes like cinnamon chewing gum, and he’s so warm under Nate’s hands. They kiss for a long time, until they’re both breathless.  
  
“I missed you,” Brad whispers against Nate’s lips.  
  
“I missed you too,” Nate murmurs. “You have no idea.”  
  
“How did you get here?” Brad asks. “You’re at Dartmouth, right?”  
  
“Yeah,” Nate says. “I drove.”  
  
Brad’s eyes widen. “That’s a long way.”  
  
“Sure is,” Nate says. “You got a bike of your own in this place?”  
  
Brad’s mouth tips up at the corners. “Of course I do.”  
  
“I bet it’s a pretty hot bike, too,” Nate says.  
  
Brad’s smile widens. “I’m biased, but yeah, I think it is.”  
  
“Probably hotter than the car I drove here in,” Nate says. “It’s a Saab, by the way.”  
  
Brad raises an eyebrow. “The President’s son can’t score a better ride than that?”  
  
“I bought it myself, used,” Nate says, “so no.”  
  
“My bike might be hotter than your car, yes.”  
  
“Well, then,” Nate says. “I think you should take me back.”


End file.
